


Red Cactus Fruit

by ladypredator



Category: Poltergeist: The Legacy
Genre: Horror, M/M, Mystery, Paranormal, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 23:25:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3587868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladypredator/pseuds/ladypredator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look back before the start of the series at the fateful meeting between Detective Frank Karmak and the Legacy Team. A bizarre killer is loose in San Francisco, leaving behind the kind of clues that only a certain Legacy Precept can follow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Cactus Fruit

**Author's Note:**

> Still reposting/archiving my older work. This is another odd pairing but it was fun to write.

In all his years as a police detective. Francis Xavier Karmak had never seen anything like this. Blood squished beneath his feet as he gingerly stepped across the carpet towards the remnants of the body that lay spread-eagled on the table. The chest cavity was wide-open, the ribs pulled outward and broken, so that their tips dangled from the gaping wound like broken branches of a tree. The cavity itself was painfully empty of blood; not a surprise given the amount of the sticky, dark fluid encrusted on the walls, floor and ceiling. But the greatest shock of all was not the missing fluid, but the presence of the organ which controlled it - resting not in the shattered chest where it belonged, but instead upon the exposed genital region. A thick mass of rusty tissue, it sat misshapen and drained, crumpled, yet still dribbling a few faint gory tears down the exposed curve of the woman's vulva.

"Frank." Detective Hargrove's voice was impassive as she called to him, but the pallor of her skin betrayed her own horror. Shivering as he forced his eyes away from the damaged, extracted heart, Frank turned and carefully found his way around the engrossed police photographer. As he came to stand beside the policewoman, the flashbulbs burst in an eerie rhythm upon the painted walls. Hargrove didn't say another word, she simply pointed towards the wall before them. The lines of gore shifted before Frank's weary eyes, moving in the bursts of light and shadow as though they were alive, rusty red snakes writhing...and taking shape. And suddenly, they were more than simply spatters, they were symbols and figures - distorted animal images and faces hidden behind grotesque masks. Hands pointing, circles weaving within squares, lines connecting monstrous visage with visage. 

There was meaning here; purpose; forbidden, mysterious, ancient, and terrifying. A sick feeling in Frank's stomach gave him a warning. 

This was only the beginning. 

OOOOOO 

After the horror of the crime scene and the sterilized stench of the morgue, the University campus was an oasis of green normality. Students laughed and played, studied and flirted, rode bicycles and ambled along on foot. The air was clean and fresh, and Frank drew in deep breaths, literally and symbolically cleaning himself of the morning's nightmare. Even the file full of photographs clutched under his arm couldn't spoil the beauty of the scene, and he enjoyed it for as long as he safely could. 

But the urgency that had stricken him earlier could not be denied. This would not be a lone crime; long years of experience told him that more would be to come if he could not act soon enough to stop it. And so he pursued the one and only available lead he had, hoping that if he could find the meaning of the strange symbols so carefully drawn in the victim's life-fluid, that maybe he would find the clue that led him to the killer. He turned a sharp right and stepped faster on his way towards the Anthropology building looming in the distance. 

The hallways were silent except for faint murmurs of voices filtered in from behind closed doorways. Lights flickered from a screen projector through tiny windows. His footsteps were loud on the tiled floor. The small brown signs pointed him onward, and then upward. This anthropologist had been recommended by the police chief himself; the man had an impressive list of credentials and a number of influential friends. Frank couldn't have cared less about that influence, what mattered to him was that the man knew his job well enough to give him the answers he needed. Not that Frank wasn't good at dealing with the wealthy and powerful -- he knew how to be diplomatic -- but right now he had more important concerns. 

Through a thick wooden door, Frank found an elderly woman sitting at a large desk. File cabinets, a humming copier, and two computer terminals dwarfed her thin frame. Yet, the eyes that peered at him through thick glasses were alert and intelligent. She waited for him to speak, and he found himself drawn forward. 

"Detective Sergeant Frank Karmak, SFPD. I need to speak with Dr. Rayne." He displayed his badge, and she studied it with quiet equanimity. Then she smiled ruefully. 

"I'm sorry, Sergeant, but Dr. Rayne is teaching a class at the moment." Her eyes looked past him towards another door, and her expression settled into calm efficiency. 

"Perhaps, Dr. Moreau could help?" 

"Dr. Moreau?" Frank echoed, unconsciously shifting on his feet, the urgency of his mission pounding at his temples. He wanted to shout at her to hurry, but she took her time answering, speaking as softly and clearly. 

"Dr. Rayne's research associate. She's available now." 

It was better than nothing, and at least it would fill the time before Rayne himself was available. He nodded briskly. 

"Please!" 

"Right this way," she said, getting to her feet with spry quickness and gesturing for him to turn and lead the way. The door behind him led into a long room full of tables, the walls lined with cabinets and bookshelves, every conceivable corner crammed with miscellaneous objects and books. The long middle table held neat rows of broken bits of pottery, polished bones, and other bits and pieces that looked like they belonged in a garbage heap instead of in the intellectual environment. He paused at the end of the table and looked up as a slender young woman put down the leg bone in her hand and turned to face him. 

His eyes widened. His heartbeat quickened. Wide brown eyes gazed at him with clear intelligence within a finely-boned face whose skin was the color of milky coffee. A mass of thick ebony curls was fastened haphazardly to the base of her skull, loose tendrils gracing her temples and teasing the edge of her chin. She moved with an easy grace; the heavy apron, sweatshirt and jeans unable to disguise the simple perfection of her figure. And her voice was as soft as her skin appeared, a faint southern lilt sounding exotic in the still air. 

He took her outstretched hand, gripping it firmly and then releasing, even as he studied her reaction to the secretary's explanation. She seemed undisturbed, although clearly curious, which was not an unusual reaction to the intrusion of a police detective into her life. The secretary bowed out, and the young woman -- the anthropologist -- calmly asked what she could do for him. 

That brought it all rushing back, and his stomach lurched unhappily as he hurriedly brought out the file folder he had been crushing against his side. 

"I'm investigating a murder that took place yesterday. The scene had a number of ritualistic elements, including elaborate drawings that were painted on the walls and ceilings in....uh...the victim's blood." She blanched slightly, but didn't withdraw, her intelligent eyes focused firmly on him as he explained. "We're trying to learn as much as we can about these images, and I was referred to Dr. Rayne as someone who could help decipher them. Ms...umm..." he waved behind him, then went on, "she said that Dr. Rayne was teaching now, and that you might be able to help." 

"I'd be glad to take a look," she said, reaching out a slender hand towards him. He dropped the glossy photos into her hand, leaning back against the table as she shuffled through them. Her mouth tightened into a thin line as she went through them, her expression darkening with each successive turn of a page. Finally, she looked back up at him, her eyes as grim as his own. 

"This definitely has Aztec roots, though some of the symbolism is borrowed from other traditions. The bull figure here...and the cross here...but the majority of this is ancient Aztec. The blood sacrifice and removal of the heart is distinctive to that tradition...but it's...I do think Derek should see these. He knows a lot more about this than I do. He did some field work in Mexico before I became his student." 

She lifted another photograph and held it up to the light. "Still...see this shift in coloration here?" She held it out for him to look, and he nodded. 

"The yellow, blue and black areas are common household paint. The kind you can buy at any Sears." 

"Yes," she replied, impatiently. "But what matters is the combination and direction. Do you know the geographical directions within the room?" 

"What?" he replied, surprised, but she gazed at him firmly, and he shrugged his shoulders, trying to remember the placement of the house and the room within. Finally, he nodded, then pointed towards the photos she had laid out on the table. 

"The window - there - is facing east. The head of the body is towards the North." 

She nodded, excitement breaking through the grimness. 

"Exactly...and look at the patterns. Yellow near the window - the East; Blue paint on the feet of the victim - facing South; Red - blood - covering the West wall; and black towards the North." 

It sounded like that was supposed to mean something to him, but it didn't. He frowned and cocked his head sideways. She smiled wryly, then explained. 

"Your killer is worshipping an Aztec God called Tezcatlipoca. He had four forms, one corresponding to each of the four directions, and each having different aspects. Yellow to the east in recognition of growing crops, blue to the South for fertility, Red to the west to symbolize his ritual death, and black to the North to symbolize night and evil." 

Frank shook his head. 

"OK - but I thought the Aztecs were long gone. Weren't they killed off by the Spanish or something like that." 

"Pretty much," she agreed. "They were massacred in large numbers. But elements of their beliefs survive to this day, especially in the more rural provinces of Mexico." 

"But this is San Francisco..." he shook his head. "Don't know why I'm surprised. If a loony practicing ancient Aztec whatsits is gonna show up anywhere - it's gotta be here." 

She chuckled wryly, then frowned again as she perused the photographs. Glancing at her watch, she gathered them up and handed them back to him. 

"Derek should be done soon; why don't we go downstairs and catch him there. He's definitely going to want to see these." 

Frank couldn't quite understand why anyone would ever want to see this - he certainly didn't ever want to see it again - but he was not about to turn down the help. Aztec ceremonies...Lord save him, the Captain was going to **hate** this! 

OOOOOO 

"Of all deaths possible, to be sacrificed to the sun was the most glorious that an Aztec could aspire towards. The sacrifices were carefully chosen and protected; they were revered and offered all the best that life could offer in the year before it was their time to be given up to the God. They went willing, even knowing what would happen; for they believed this would bring them great rewards in the afterlife. The Aztec believed strongly that death was only part of the eternal pathway; and found proof of this in the death and rebirth of the Sun itself everyday, the sacrifice of the stars to the Sun each morning only to rise again each night, and in the waning and waxing of the moon throughout the month..." 

The man on the small stage held his audience spellbound. The power of his personality filled the room. He moved with leonine grace, his voice rising and falling with an odd foreign inflection. A thick, wavy mane of brown hair curled around his ears and against the collar of his black linen jacket. His hands punctuated his speech with strong slashes through the air, then stilled as he turned to focus on the eyes upturned towards him, shifting from one attentive face to another. 

He paused; waiting for a question to be asked; he answered briskly, yet thoroughly. A sly humor slipped through and sent the room into a convulsion of laughter, which died upon another wave of his hand and a dip in his voice. Frank lost the sense of the words and found himself drifting upon the hypnotic sound of the voice itself. It was rich and soothing, dramatic, yet tantalizing in the unfamiliar harshness of the accent. It wasn't German, but it was guttural; yet beautiful in a strange way. He liked the sound... 

And it ended all to soon. 

The students too, were obviously loathe to leave. Frank jerked as the spell unwound. Turning, he found Dr. Moreau smiling sympathetically at him; her brown eyes sparkling with amusement. 

"Quite a speaker, isn't he?" she whispered. 

He nodded, rubbing at the back of his neck. "If I'd had a teacher that good, maybe I'd have stayed in school instead of joining the police." 

She laughed. "He's what kept me going. Without Derek..." she shook her head, the brightness in her eyes dimming to a faint afterglow. Her voice fell into remembered sadness. "I wouldn't have made it without him." But any further discussion was aborted, as her mentor's sharp eyes found them, and pushed him into motion towards them. The students parted around him, flowing out past Frank until only the three of them were left in the back of the room. 

Rayne's smile was warm as his gray eyes fell upon Dr. Moreau's face and he greeted her with obvious affection. 

"Hello, Alex. Like the lecture?" 

"Brilliant as always," she replied, wryly, wrinkling her nose at him. He grinned back, then turned his attention towards Frank. The detective felt himself pinned by that calm scrutiny - it seemed to look straight through him, into him, demanding the exposure of his very soul. 

"Derek, this Sergeant Frank Karmak of the city police. He has some photos of a crime scene that I think you'd better take a look at." 

"Sergeant," Rayne nodded in his direction, extending a long-fingered hand in his direction. Frank accepted the firm grip, pleased to find that while the pressure was certain, it was not crushing. Confident without being overwhelming. He murmured a common platitude about appreciating the Doctor's help, even as he felt Rayne's personal charisma flood him yet again. 

But the man was all business once the pleasantries were done, and the detective found himself hustled back towards the now-familiar work room. The photos were soon spread out on the table, and both anthropologists were busy at work. 

Rayne confirmed Alex Moreau's interpretations, immediately seeing the importance of the color scheme and relating it to the God with an unpronounceable name. A few more tongue-twisting words were thrown about, until Rayne stopped and picked up the close-up on the body. Graying eyebrows closed over darkening eyes and he studied it in silence. His voice was deep, grim, when he finally did speak. 

"Red Cactus-Fruit," he said softly. 

"What?" Frank was startled by the seeming nonsequitor. 

Rayne tilted his head towards him, and Frank could see the lecture-mode coming over him. 

"Red Cactus-Fruit," he repeated more firmly. He pointed at the disembodied heart muscle. "That's an English translation of the Aztec term for the blood sacrifice. Traditionally, they would cut out the heart of a living sacrifice and offer it to the Sun. They believed that unless the sacrifices were made, the sun would stop moving and they would all perish in the fire." 

Frank shivered despite himself. Rayne's mouth curved into a wry smile. He shrugged his broad shoulders. 

"They believed it was necessary to their survival; to the survival of their world. It seems repugnant to us, but..." 

"But why would someone be doing this kind of sacrifice here and now?" Frank asked. He grimaced down at the gruesome images. "As far as I know, there hasn't been a resurgence of Aztec religion in San Francisco lately." 

"No..."Rayne replied pensively. "No, this is an ancient practice. I wouldn't expect it here...and..." he paused, his eyes flickering from one photo to another. "This is not a pure reenactment. Some of the symbolism is out of place, some of it isn't even Aztec. This..." he pointed, "is Celtic, and this is Mayan. This is actually Navajo." He waved his hand over the table. "It's primarily Aztec, and I would be extremely surprised if your killer didn't have a healthy amount of Aztec blood in his veins. But he's probably a generation or two away from his roots. Something set him off - a desperation, perhaps, a life crisis that sent him back to the old ways. Only he's cobbling bits and pieces of folklore together. Here's worship of Tezcatlipoca or Xipe Totec, here's a representation of Tonatiuh, there's..."Rayne's expression darkened, as he lifted another photo up towards the ceiling lights. 

"What is it?" Frank questioned, not liking the anthropologist's reaction. 

"Your killer has a fascination for the dark side of Aztec beliefs. Blood sacrifice notwithstanding, they were a deeply spiritual people whose religion had some very positive aspects. But the strongest images here representative the evil - dark - side of their beliefs. Instead of sketching Quetzalcoatl, who is one of the most important deities in the Aztec belief systems, he's sketched Quetzalcoatl's evil twin, Xolotl. Xolotl was an animal creature who led people into the Aztec version of black witchcraft and worked against his twin, the other Gods and against humanity. This is not... pleasant stuff." 

Frank didn't need another glance at the pictures to agree. "You can say that again." 

Rayne's mouth twisted. He didn't bother repeating himself, instead he focused in on the issue most haunting the detective. Hearing someone else say it didn't make him feel the least bit vindicated. Instead, Frank felt his hearty clench within his chest when Rayne said calmly, direfully, that this killer wasn't finished. 

"He will do it again. Soon." 

OOOOOO 

Frank's head throbbed as he gazed wearily at the pile of computer printouts before him. Lifting his mug, he sipped at the lukewarm coffee, then set it aside with a grimace. The remnants of a chicken sandwich sat to his left, he pushed it a couple of inches away until it rested, precariously on the edge of the desk top. Sighing, he ran a hand through his graying hair, then forced himself to peer down at the printed list before him. Mexicans with a police record...wonderful...once the press got hold of this, the shit was gonna hit the fan big time. The Captain had already given him an earful, but Frank trusted Rayne and Moreau's interpretations. If they said it was Aztec, then Aztec it was. And it certainly did match the artifact images in the book Rayne had lent him. The book Rayne himself had written. 

Red Cactus-Fruit. Frank shivered, the lines on the page before him wavered before his sight. He couldn't even begin to imagine the agony of having your heart ripped out while you alive and conscious. Not that you'd stay conscious for long, but... 

Despite the heat of the summer day and the sweltering close confines of the squadroom, he felt chilled to the bone. A sharp sense of impending doom made him sink deeper into his creaky, wooden chair, then lift his head upward to see what was coming. 

Rayne. 

The anthropologist appeared as much at ease in the dirty, cluttered police station as he had in front of his students. He moved with an assurance that Frank envied; his gray eyes focused on his quarry and he hurried forward. Frank rose to meet him, again feeling his hand enclosed in that steady, warm grip. Suddenly the detective felt reassured. It was as though a shield had been placed between him and the horror of this case. A smile quirked at his lips, then died abruptly as he caught the pained look in Rayne's eyes. 

"What is it?" he asked anxiously, even as he fumbled for a chair to offer to his guest. 

Taking the offered seat, Rayne settled himself down, adjusting the fall of his dark jacket before cautiously replying. 

"We might have underestimated this man's knowledge," he said. 

Startled, Frank simply stared at him. For the first time, Rayne looked uncomfortable. Sighing, he brushed the thick weight of his hair back from his eyes. The wavy strands tumbled forward again the moment his hand moved away, covering the right side of his forehead in a brown curtain. His eyebrows curved together in a silent frown over his eyes, as he considered his words. 

"Alex and I enlarged some of your photos and found examples of writing." 

Frank jerked forward, his entire body tensed. 

"Writing," he echoed, excitement pulsing in his veins. 

Rayne nodded, but the grimness of his expression was a dash of cold water against Frank's rising hopes. 

"In the ancient Aztec language, Nahuatl. Actually, it's not totally unknown today -- it is used for poetic expression in some parts of Mexico even today." 

"So maybe he's into poetry," Frank replied. 

Rayne smiled. "Possibly..." 

"But..." 

"But the phrases he used were not modern poetry. They were fragments of ancient rituals, cobbled together. They are not commonly known; in fact, only someone with a great deal of training would be able to interpret the symbolism." 

"What kind of training?" Frank asked, his anxiety increasing. 

"Anthropological. Our killer has done some serious research. The texts these lines come from are not readily available. You'd need the kind of access that a member of the public wouldn't have. These kinds of materials are rare and valuable." 

"You'd have access..." Rayne nodded. "Dr. Moreau would have access." Again, the silent nod. "What about your students?" Rayne frowned, then slowly shook his head. 

"Not likely - and not without supervision. A doctoral student would have access, but not your standard undergrad." 

"How many doctoral students are there in your department?" Frank asked. 

Rayne thought for a moment. "Maybe a dozen. But that's just at UCSF. There are other Universities in the area." His eyes brightened. "Still, records would be kept of anyone who accessed the collections here, or elsewhere." Then the light in his gray eyes dimmed. "But he doesn't have to have accessed the collection here. He could be a visitor." 

"I've sent out a notice to the NCIC, looking for matching crimes in other jurisdictions. If there are any, I'll hear about it." 

"Good," Rayne replied, though he was obviously lost in thought. Frank could see his attention return - again there was the sudden sensation of being pinned to a microscope slide. 

"There's something else we haven't discussed." 

"What?" Frank asked, though he knew deep down inside that he really, truly didn't want to know. 

"Rituals like this one are done for a purpose. If this man is worshipping Xipe Toltec, he's probably invoking the God's assistance for a reason. He wants something. Maybe money, maybe just revenge against an enemy. If we knew what he was after..." 

"We'd be closer to finding him." Frank finished the thought, then shook his head. "Nah, I've found that motive is the least likely route to solving this kind of murder. The victim was likely chosen at random..." 

Rayne interrupted fiercely. 

"No. She's not random." 

Frank looked at him in surprise, but Rayne continued, gesturing widely. "She might never have met him, but he took his time picking her out. The sacrificial victims were usually chosen a year in advance, and then treated almost like a living God during that time. He will have found her in advance, and stayed close by. Did she recently receive flowers and plants from a secret admirer? Even gold jewelry?" 

Frank gave up on being surprised, he simply nodded. 

"Yes, in fact she'd received a number of anonymous gifts over the past six weeks. She was a bit nervous about it, but there was no evidence that she was being threatened. No contact, and no one appeared to be following her." 

"He would have been extremely careful. Unlike your average stalker, he wouldn't have wanted her to know he was there. He wouldn't need her to be afraid - on the contrary, he wanted to make her happy. She would have been an aspect of the divine to him. Scaring her would have been the last thing he wanted." 

"Until he decided it was time to tear her heart out," Frank responded bitterly. 

Rayne gave him a crooked smile. 

"Yes, until then." 

Frank shook his head. 

"Even so, for all I can see, we're simply dealing with a psycho here." 

Rayne disagreed. 

"No, don't underestimate this man. He's been very careful, and he's obviously well-educated and intelligent. And don't disregard the forces he's trying to tap into. If his will is not strong enough, he might get devoured by the very power he's trying to control. And if he is strong enough -- there's no telling what he might be capable of." 

"You don't really believe that he could call up some Aztec God?" Frank scoffed, laughing despite the nauseating feeling that maybe, just maybe... 

Rayne shrugged. "Never discount the power of belief. It may not matter whether the God actually responds...if someone believes in something strongly enough, that can make things happen." 

"Something's already happened." Frank replied. 

"Something more is going to," Rayne stated darkly. 

And as though in confirmation, the phone rang. 

OOOOOO 

Derek Rayne had insisted on accompanying him, even though this case appeared to have no relation to the Aztec killer. From the brief report Frank received from the officer on the scene, some kind of wild animal had broken loose from the zoo. There were three victims, all caught while jogging in a small park near the university. The coroner was already bagging the bodies when the detective and the anthropologist arrived, but Frank stayed him long enough for them both to take a good look. 

This was vastly different from the previous crime scene. The remnants of these victims were spread wide across the open grass. Mauled and torn, jagged edges of flesh wavered in the breeze. Large bite marks discolored what remained of the skin. They had been eaten, raw and alive. 

Frank shuddered, but coped. Jaded experience pulled the shutters down between what he saw and what he felt. Stepping forward, he closed in on the closest body and knelt down. The flash of the police photographer stunned his eyes, and he blinked, then twisted his neck and shoulders around so that he could see Rayne. 

The anthropologist wasn't looking at the corpses. He wasn't looking at the busy crime scene personnel. He ignored the gathering public and press. His eyes were focused upon the air itself. His gaze was penetrating and abstracted at once. His nose lifted into the wind, his mouth tightened. His body poised, strong and graceful, on the edge of motion, yet as still as a marble statue. Even the rise and fall of his chest stopped... 

And then he broke into smooth motion yet again. His head shook, sending ripples through the wavy cascade of his brown hair. His eyes blinked rapidly, then focused on Frank's watching face. Moving to stand above the detective, he spoke in a soft, yet certain hiss. 

"It's the same killer." 

OOOOOO 

Frank stared into the murky depths of his coffee, frowning. 

Rayne was waiting, silent, confident. Waiting... 

And all Frank could do was shake his head again. 

"There's absolutely no similarity between the crimes. In fact, all the evidence points to some kind of animal being responsible for the bodies in the park. We're checking the zoo and any traveling circuses and animal acts to see what might have escaped." 

Rayne never stirred. He simply kept staring firmly at Frank, letting his silence answer for him. 

Frank spread his hands wide. 

"Look - how could a human being do *that*? The bite marks were obviously those of a fanged animal!" He pushed the glossy photos across the table surface. "And look at the size of the bites. No human jaw could..." 

"No, of course not. No *human* could. But our 'friend' isn't quite so human anymore." Rayne spoke casually, the calm tone of his voice striking Frank in odd contrast to the strangeness of his words. 

"What? You're nuts!" Frank exclaimed. 

Rayne chuckled softly. 

"Perhaps. But I also _know_ I'm right." 

"How?" Frank challenged. 

A somber expression clouded Rayne's eyes. Abruptly, he slumped in his chair. 

"I just know." 

"You just know," Frank echoed skeptically. Rayne shrugged his broad shoulders. Frank shook his head yet again. "My superiors are hardly going to buy that without some kind of evidence." 

Rayne nodded, then rose to his feet. 

Pointing down at the graphic, bloody photographs, he replied softly. "He's not going to stop. The blood is a necessity to feed the demon. His control will weaken and the attacks will become more frequent until he has lost all of his humanity; and the demon is in full control." 

Frank was staring at him now, mouth agape. Rayne's answering smile was wry. 

"It won't take long." 

And with that he turned and left. 

OOOOOO 

Rayne had been right about one thing. The killings did not stop; they did increase in frequency. Witnesses reported sighting and hearing some kind of giant animal, but their descriptions were vague at best. No one who got close enough, lived to tell the tale. Nothing was reported missing from the zoo, all suppliers of pets and animals were questioned. No results. Nada. Zero. Zip. 

Frank Karmak was getting desperate. 

Until the phone call came. 

OOOOOO 

The Luna Foundation was set on a small hill on a tiny Island just off the coast of California. Across the bay from San Francisco proper, it was private and secluded. A ferry brought Frank and his car over from the mainland, and a long, winding driveway drew him through perfectly manicured gardens and orchards. Finally, he arrived at the front of the House itself. 

His breath caught in his chest as he stared up at the looming structure. It looked like it belonged in a gothic novel. Any moment, a woman in a long white gown ought to appear at the tower window, the nebulous shape of a ghost behind her. But instead, all he saw was the slim figure of a young man dressed in jeans and a white tee-shirt hurrying down the steps. 

"Detective Karmak?" he asked in bland American speech. 

Karmak nodded, accepting the offered hand. The handshake was brief, but firm, and the man identified himself with apparently customary abruptness. 

"Nick Boyle. Come this way. Derek's waiting for you in the library." 

Derek Rayne was indeed waiting, as was Alex Moreau and another lovely woman. She was introduced as Julia....something. Frank barely caught her nod of greeting before Rayne was prodding him towards a pile of books and papers spread out upon a large oak table. It took Frank a moment to realize what he was looking at, then his heart quickened as his attention was instantly focused. 

Those symbols he knew. This case had not been abandoned for the newer streak of murders; despite his disbelief, Frank could not totally dismiss Rayne's certainty of a connection. He had yet to find it, but... that was why he was here now. 

Rayne was waiting for him to respond, and a quick glance upwards was all he needed. A long-fingered hand thrust forward, a forefinger pointing, jabbing downward, landing on a single image with demanding force. The paper shook beneath the pad of his fingertip; the sketched symbol wavered, then held steady. Frank focused on it, then shrugged his shoulders, his expression blank. 

He looked up to meet a smile of feline satisfaction. Rayne jerked his head sideways towards Alex and she was instantly in motion. She led the way, Julia and Nick Boyle following fluidly. Rayne's hand curved around Frank's arm, urging him onward -- the jolt of the contact sent shivers up his spine. He bolted forward, every nerve aware of Rayne's closeness behind him. The pressure on his arm was firm, yet not forceful, demanding, but not overt. He found him pushed forward more by strength of personality than by physical strength. The ease with which the others accepted Rayne's direction was seductive, yet strange -- Frank's curiosity reigned supreme. This household was odder than even the staff of an anthropological foundation ought to be. He wanted to know... 

And then his attention was claimed a large wall-sized screen. It looked like a giant TV, yet was obviously hooked up to a computer. Alex was half-seated on the edge of a desk, her fingers nimbly dancing over a computer keyboard. Behind her, through huge bay windows, the sun set in streaks of red and orange over the city of San Francisco. Nick and Julia took seats at an elegant mahogany table; Rayne joined Alex behind the desk; claiming his seat there with natural authority. Frank was left standing in-between, until a satisfying click and whir from the computer brought up a familiar image on the screen. 

A map of the city spread out before him; a computerized reflection of the glittering lights gleaming through the windows. Alex expertly ran her fingers over the keys again, and another image superimposed itself over the first. The symbol Rayne had pointed out only a few moments before...it looked oddly anachronistic over the modern map. It seemed to swallow small pieces of the city in dark strokes and slashes of an ancient language. Frank turned to Rayne, his questions multiplying, but his only reply was a sharp slash of Rayne's arm towards the screen. Alex wasn't finished, and when she was, Frank's breath held within his lungs. 

Bright pinpoints of light appeared through the lines of the Aztec symbol, mimicking colored tacks. The very same tacks which covered the city map on the wall behind his own desk. He'd studied that pattern, over and over again, looking for sense in it; finding none; until now. 

"Oh my God," he whispered. His eyes were sharp as he turned again towards the waiting anthropologist. The wry smile of success was masked by a very real concern. Rayne nodded, then rose out of his seat to move around the desk. 

"This symbol represents Tezcatlipoca in his black form. I think he's trying to call up the God, to harness his power for his own ends." 

OK. This much Frank could understand. This wouldn't be the first psycho who'd worshiped a strange religion in blood, even in modern times. 

"So he's got some kind of animal and is letting it loose in strategic places to mark the city with this God's symbol." 

"No," Rayne's interruption was absolute. "He _is_ the animal." 

"Ahh, come on!" Frank argued. "You can't really believe that?" But the calm look of certainty on Rayne's face was echoed by those of his associates. Alex gazed solemnly at him, dark-haired Julia nodded with the faintest of smiles, short, muscular Nick bowed his head with a sharkish grin. 

"But..." Frank protested. 

"The most important thing is stopping him," Rayne interrupted again. "Alex has plotted the pattern of his kills, and they all match up with the symbol. He's drawing it across the city from east to south to west in a circular pattern so that he ends up in the north. He's got two major points left to draw." Alex was again typing furiously on the keyboard, and the image on the screen shifted. Most of the pinpricks shone in bright blue, two more shone in vivid red. Rayne moved forward until his outstretched hand could touch the screen itself. "Here and here, to complete the image. If he stays true to his procession so far, he'll choose this one next, and save the northernmost point for last. That would make sense in terms of the religion also, as black Tezcatlipoca is associated with the north in Aztec belief structure." 

Suddenly all questions of belief were banished as realization struck home. 

"You mean he's going to strike there next?" Frank barked. 

"Yes." The agreement came from Alex, her dulcet tones a striking contract to Rayne's accented velvet. Frank spun around to her. 

"Any idea when?" 

She nodded, though her eyes darted towards her mentor before answering. She must have received a positive response, for she continued smoothly. 

"I'd guess tonight. The summer solstice occurs in about three days, and he's going to need time to prepare for the final sacrifice. So he'll do this one as soon as possible. Tonight, probably soon after sunset." 

Her words sent Frank's eyes blazing towards the setting sun raging across the horizon behind her. 

"Tonight? I've got to notify the precinct. We need men out there now. We can catch this bastard!" 

He was moving towards the phone as he spoke, excitement and desperation mixed in his voice. He never made it; a strong hand clamped down on his forearm and stilled him. 

"No. Your officers cannot cope with this." 

Frustrated Frank tried to pull himself free, but Rayne's grip turned painfully powerful. 

"What are you gonna tell me now - bullets won't kill him? Or do we need silver ones?" the sarcasm lay heavy in his tone, but Rayne ignored it. 

"No, silver will do no good. Nor your bullets either. Unless you want a massacre, you've got to let us handle it." 

"Let you...Now wait a minute! This is a matter for trained police officers. You're civilians." 

"Maybe, but we have a lot more experience handling an Aztec shape-shifter than your men do." 

"An Aztec what? Let me go now, or I'll have you arrested for interfering in a police investigation." Frank was furious now, the need to get to the site in question arcing through his blood. He could stop this monster from killing again - that desire was the only thing he could think about. Anything else was an unwelcome distraction. 

Rayne pulled back sadly, then nodded towards the door. "Go ahead if you like, but I am warning you." 

His words trailed after Frank's back as the detective bolted out the door. He had a phone in his car with a direct link to the station. He might be late himself, but he could blanket the area with officers. A SWAT team, perhaps. 

He never heard Rayne's swift barked order behind him, or noticed the form of Nicholas Boyle as he darted around the corner and vanished towards the back of the house. 

OOOOOO 

The streets were strangely silent as Frank descended upon the target area. He alighted from his car, tense and nervous, every muscle tingling, every nerve alert. His radio broke the stillness with sharp bursts of static, terror, shock, anger. Voices climbed over each other, demanding assistance, screaming for help, simply screaming. 

There should have been noise on the street itself, but there was nothing. Frank moved forward into the moonlit darkness warily, eyes darting from shadow to shadow. Nothing... 

Until a soft moaning cry seized at his ears. He was there in an instant of abrupt motion, kneeling down over the fallen man. Tucking his gun back into its shoulder holster, he bent forward to offer assistance. 

There was none he could give. Impossibly, this young officer was still alive. But he wouldn't be, couldn't be for long. Huge gaping holes had been torn out of his flesh - his innards had been sucked out of his abdomen, leaving a huge gaping wound. Blood pooled within it, the liquid dark and empty. Frank drew in a sharp breath, trying desperately to still the nausea, gritting his teeth to keep his own scream inside. To avoid venting his angry horror out into the night air. To keep from doubling over in anguish and mirrored agony. 

The victim's eyes were somehow still open, and they pleaded - desperately seeking the impossible. Frank couldn't. He couldn't. Yet how could he not. Delivering this final shot shook his soul; tears blinded his eyes even as he focused. The sound of the weapon firing shattered his ears. He rocked on his heels, shaking, trembling, the gun dangling limply from his numbed fingers. 

He never heard a sound behind him. He never saw a shadow looming above him. He never sensed a thing until he was felt himself flying through the air. 

His gun flew sideways, bouncing against a wall and clattering to the ground. 

Frank hit the side of a building, flesh bruising against brick, then he fell. Gravity claimed him, and he surrendered. He dropped like a rag doll to the concrete, the slightest of groans escaping his lips. 

Now he saw, bearing down upon him - something - that shattered his worst nightmares into stunned reality. It had fangs. Long sharp incisors that gleamed ivory in the moonlight, obscured by drops of dark moisture, sliding down the sides of a face that held no humanity. The figure was large, shambling, yet obscenely graceful. It moved with a hunter's surety. Its eyes glowed bright yellow; sparkling above that horrible huge mouth. Its forelimbs ended in distended, curving claws. 

Frank instinctively pulled himself up into a fetal ball. 

It came closer, then paused, studying him. Sound roared in Frank's ears, he found himself shouting over the din, "Come on, get it over with you sonuvabitch!!!" 

The monster paused, turned, roared aloud. 

Voices faintly penetrated the clamor in Frank's ears. Shouts echoed, but made no sense. The monster reared, snarled, but shrank upon itself. It fell upon four legs and bolted into motion. As suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone. 

Curled up, bruised and terrified, Frank didn't respond to the voices that closed in upon him. A hand settled on his shoulder, and he jerked away. He couldn't look up. He didn't dare see. It couldn't be real. It was real. He'd seen it. He'd seen it! 

His voice rose into a shout of utter horror. Senseless sound shrieking into the uncaring night. 

Warm and gentle hands settled onto his shoulders. Strong arms wrapped around him, cradled him. He felt himself being lifted, carried. He was too weak to struggle. He'd accepted his own death. None of this seemed real. He drifted downward into a cool nothingness. 

The first thing he felt was a warm, wet sensation on his forehead. His mind floated softly upwards towards the light, he felt as though he was wrapped in soft cotton. But no, it was simply the welcoming mattress of a bed beneath him, the weight of sheets and blankets wrapped tightly around him. He sighed with pleasure, if this was heaven, he was glad to be here. His closed eyelids squeezed tighter, he let his head sink deeper into the pillows. He didn't want to let this moment go. 

But a murmur of voices kept disturbing his rest. Moisture trickled against his temples. A soothing hand brushed over his cheek. It drew his attention, and his eyes flickered, seeking the source despite him. And soon enough, he opened outward, blinking against the intrusion of light until he could focus on the face leaning downward over him. 

Beautiful enough to be an angel, she still was not. Heaven vanished, and he was left with an elegant bedroom, a four-poster bed surrounded by antique furniture. And the familiar countenance gazing down at him smiled in welcome. 

"Hello there," Alex said. "How do you feel?" 

"Like I've been run over by a truck," he grumbled, as the bruises, strains, and bumps of the night made themselves painfully known. 

She chuckled, removing the damp washcloth from his forehead. 

"You'll live," she replied. 

"How?" he questioned, as memory flickered into full blaze. "What happened?" 

Another voice answered, and Alex drifted gracefully away. 

"You almost got eaten by an Aztec God." 

Frank pulled himself up on his elbows as the bed dipped under Derek Rayne's weight. 

"I know that!" Frank replied disagreeably. He hurt from head-to-toe and was simply not in the mood to listen to 'I told you so's.' Luckily, Rayne did not seem to be disposed to delivering them. He accepted Frank's acceptance with a quick nod of his head. 

"We followed you out to the site and rescued you. There was nothing we could do for the others." His voice dipped, the accent deepening. "I'm sorry, Frank. Even with the chopper, we weren't fast enough to stop him." 

It took a moment, then memory coalesced with the words. "Chopper...that's what I heard. You?" 

Rayne nodded. He folded his hands in his lap, staring at them for a moment. 

"Look, Detective - Frank - this creature is no longer truly human. He has only one last kill to make and he will succeed in bringing a very ancient, powerful, and evil force into this world. We have to stop him, but it cannot be done in any way that you are familiar with. Bullets won't stop him." 

Before his experience this night, Frank would have laughed Rayne off. But he knew what he'd seen. He'd never forget it; it swam before his eyes every time he closed them. It would rule his nightmares for years. It had been real and that meant... That meant that Rayne wasn't crazy. That meant that they were all in deep shit. 

Until Rayne broke out laughing, Frank didn't realize that he'd spoken that thought aloud. But the laughter was edged with irony; Frank could see the dark concern glittering in Rayne's striking gray eyes. They shared a wry smile, then Rayne sighed and gazed straight into Frank's eyes. He seemed to be weighing a heavy decision. His gaze penetrated Frank to the core, then lightened. His voice was thickly serious as he spoke. 

"Leave this to us, Frank. We're far better equipped to handle it than you are." 

"Who are you?" Frank demanded. That question had been nagging at the back of his mind for a while. There was more here than appeared on the surface; now he wanted the answers. 

Rayne grimaced, for he'd obviously known that question was coming. But he settled in for the explanation, running a hand through the thick brown waves of his hair before speaking. 

"We belong to an ancient organization known as the Legacy - perhaps because membership tends to be handed down within family lines. The purpose of the Legacy is to fight evil, most often in its supernatural forms. We deal with any threat from the dark side. We protect, defend, and fight when necessary." 

"The dark side?" Frank echoed, trying to get a handle on this revelation. 

"Good and evil are all around us, Frank. They echo in every human heart, resound in every human decision. They are real, live, active forces which can penetrate our existence. And there is power to be found on both sides. Such power is very seductive, especially evil power. But it also carries a heavy price, as our killer is finding out. It takes over. He's become subsumed by the force he sought to control." 

"So he's been possessed by this God?" 

"In a manner of speaking, yes." 

Frank shook his head. "If I hadn't seen it for myself..." 

Rayne chuckled. 

"That's usually the way it works. Most people don't believe." His expression turned grim. "And that disbelief allows evil to flourish. That's what the Legacy exists for -- to stop that evil before it causes harm. If we can." 

"And can you stop this ... this monster?" Frank demanded. 

"We're going to try," Rayne answered. The deadly purpose in his words didn't stop Frank's heart from sinking. 

"If you fail?" 

Rayne's mouth tightened involuntarily. 

"Then you'd better start praying to whatever God you believe in, because all Hell is going to break loose." 

OOOOOO 

It was coming for him. He could hear it moving in the shadows. Closer...closer...And he ran, but his feet felt like they were mired in quicksand, pulling him down. He struggled, forcing each step, fighting the wind that blew him backwards towards it. There was no escape. He was going to die. He screamed. 

And woke to find himself gasping for breath, his legs entangled in the sheets. Sweat poured down his face, beaded on his flesh. His heart raced, pounding in his chest. He closed his eyes, then opened them again, blinking in the faint glow that escaped through the slightly open doorway from the hall. 

Footsteps sounded soft and muffled on the carpet, then a strong presence entered the room. Frank rubbed at his forehead, didn't speak as the door shut and then another person perched on the edge of the bed beside him. 

It was Derek Rayne. His large hands settled on Frank's shoulders, easing him back against the pillows. 

"Easy, it was just a dream." 

Frank nodded, still trying to catch his breath. 

Rayne smiled, the expression dropping years from his experience-lined face. 

"You'll be all right," he said. 

"Yeh, if you manage to stop this thing." 

"We will." Derek spoke with the certainty of a man who knows the price the failure, and refuses to accept it. 

Frank was far less certain, and that fear shone in his blue eyes. 

Derek's hands tightened on his shoulder. 

"We've done this before. We'll succeed." 

"You've fought this Aztec whatsis before?" Frank questioned. Despite two days spent watching the Legacy team prepare for the battle ahead, he still felt confused and overwhelmed. None of this felt real - he'd stepped into a living nightmare and he kept waiting to wake up. 

"Not exactly," was the reply. 

"What do you mean, 'not exactly'," Frank demanded, his eyes widening. 

Derek shrugged. 

"We've never dealt with this particular demon, but we've faced several others." 

"Others?" Frank didn't like the sound of that. "Where...when..." He paused then laughed at himself. "This is fuckin' unbelievable. Half the time I think I've got totally insane." 

Derek laughed, openly this time. 

"You haven't, but I'm sure it feels that way. I'll never forget..." His laughter choked off and his eyes darkened. His jaw jutted forward and his hands clenched against the bare flesh of Frank's upper arms. 

"Derek?" the detective questioned. 

"I was just remembering the first time I saw a demon - proof that such a thing did exist. I'd been brought up in a Legacy House, but knowing something and experiencing it firsthand are very different." 

"What happened," Frank found himself drawn to ask. The masked pain in the other man's expression was terrifying to behold. Throughout this nightmare, Derek Rayne's strength and calm assurance had been the rock that Frank had clung to. 

Derek pulled in on himself, his arms dropping to his side, his eyes staring off into space. 

"I was fifteen, and visiting my father on an expedition in Peru. He was in search of a sepulcher" The shaggy brown head shook, then the eyes refocused grimly on Frank's watching face. "He died. I saw it happen." 

He fell silent, and Frank absorbed all that had been left unspoken. Seeing this as an adult already steeped in human evil had been rough enough. To be a child and lose a parent to it. Frank couldn't imagine the horror of it. Now it was his turn to offer what comfort he could. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered, reaching out to frame Derek's face in his hands. The contact felt right, the touch of flesh on flesh sent a rush of warmth through his body. It was the closest Frank had come to another human being since his divorce, and he held on, prolonging the moment with unspoken need. 

Derek responded to it in kind. His gaze was almost tender as it settled on Frank's. 

"Me too. Frank. I..." 

Derek paused, uncharacteristically bereft of words. He swallowed hard, then dropped his eyes. Frank himself wasn't sure what was happening, but he rode the crest of emotion with a strangely exhilarated sense of relief. Somehow this was right, for the moment only perhaps, but nonetheless right and needed. Drawing Derek closer, he leaned upwards, every sense coming alive at once. 

The first kiss was no more than a gentle brush of lips, a sharing of breath. The second was a fierce battle, lips, tongues, teeth clashing as two strong wills fought for supremacy. They met each other in shared desire - a cry for life in the face of death - and answered mirrored need with a hot rush of passion. 

Neither man was in the mood for gentleness or tender wooing. Both knew what they needed, both demanded with angry hands. There was satisfaction in not having to deny any impulse, in knowing that however rough the tumble became, the other was willing to meet it fully. 

Clothes were torn away and tossed aside; sheets were kicked into rumpled piles of linen. Pillows fell to the floor. Bodies tangled in a heated web of limbs. Sweat slicked flesh rubbed against flesh, mouths bit at exposed necks and chests. Hands circled, hips thrust, an age-old dance of dominion and submission, violently swinging back and forth between opponents and partners. 

Derek's roar filled the room as he pushed Frank over onto his back. The detective's hips rocked upward as the anthropologist's busy mouth closed over his rock-hard cock and bathed his swollen testicles in wet heat. 

Frank cried out something; senseless sound; his hands digging into a thick wealth of brown hair, tugging at the curls which waved over his fingers. He gave himself to the sensations swamping him, unable even to protest or warn as climax came over him like a sudden tsunami, washing everything before it in a sea of bursting stars. 

And even before he'd awakened from the blessed release, his body was stimulated again, this time by an intruder seeking entry. He gasped and cried out from a roughened throat, a blast of pain mixing with the pulsing remnants of pleasure. But it was done before he'd even had a chance to understand, and the abrupt sense of being filled overcame everything else. 

Then Derek moved, and the pain was again shot through with shocks of pleasure. The angle altered, and ecstasy fired throughout his entire body. He pushed backwards, crying out the need to feel that again, and Derek gave it to him, with a powerful thrust. 

They were lost again in a pulsing battle of the flesh, and Frank gave himself over to the iron arms that encircled him. The press against the rumpled sheets and the caress of a firm and knowing hand brought him back to the brink, and he shook with it. More, he needed just a little bit more, and Derek rose to answer that unspoken, physical demand. One more thrust of powerful hips, and then another, and then... 

Their voices rang as one in a long howl of triumph, then fell low into a satiated hum. Their bodies shifted, the connection withdrawing, leaving Frank feeling empty - alone again - until Derek drew him into a tight embrace and pulled them both down into much-needed sleep. 

OOOOOO 

The night of the summer solstice was clear and quiet in San Francisco. The city lights gleamed brightly against the stars. The moon rose high and pregnant, hovering low in the sky. The Legacy House was awash with activity, plans being finalized, equipment gathered, last minute changes ironed into place. Then it was time for them to move, and Frank followed Nick and Julia towards the black shape of the helicopter with mixed dread and excitement rushing through his veins. 

"Stay here," Derek's voice ordered in his ears and he turned around to face the Precept. 

"No way," he refused. "I'm going with you." 

"It's too dangerous." 

"For God's sake," Frank exploded. "This is still my case. I want that sonuvabitch as much as you do." 

"You're not..." 

"Not what? Not experienced in coping with real-life evil Gods? Maybe not, but I'm still a cop, an ex-marine, and I've seen my share of evil. I'm going." With that, Frank turned and stalked towards the helicopter. Julia, cool and quiet in her dark shirt and jeans, held the door open for him and he clambered inside. 

Derek paused where he was, emotions fleeing across his strong-boned face, but finally he followed. Alex was the last to join them, Derek helping her up beside him, then shutting the chopper door. Nick guided them upwards into the sky, and then flew in silence, each contemplating the dangerous battle ahead. 

OOOOOO 

They surrounded the area in a perfect square, Frank staying close to Derek. Each Legacy member took a direction, Alex to the East, Nick to the West, Julia to the South, and Derek to the North. Each carried a burning candle, the wax of which had been made within the Legacy house, each member contributing precious drops of their blood to the mix; each candle made with a different colored dye to match the Aztec beliefs. Each wore a scarf of the same color, wrapped around their necks. Each had broad strokes of the same color emblazoned on the skin of their hands and faces, forming symbols borrowed from Derek's ancient translations. Each had prepared lines to speak, and each had a dagger belted to his/her waist. 

They took their positions and they waited. 

Waited until Derek lifted his head into the wind and focused southward from his position. 

"Now!" he commanded into the microphone clipped to his shirt collar. Four pairs of ears heard him through fitted receivers, and five sets of footsteps began to converge. 

Frank followed Derek's measured tread anxiously, doubting, yet again, the wisdom of ignoring Derek's order to stay on the Island. He still didn't see how candle wax and chants were going to defeat this monster; how thin daggers could do what bullets could not. But the Precept's determination was catching, and Frank refused to let his new-found friends walk into danger without him. Perhaps the bullets in the gun he cradled in his right hand would not stop this Aztec nightmare, but it might just slow it down enough to let Derek and his people do their magic. 

The monster awaited them in an empty intersection. Perhaps simply the feel of what was here kept people away. Frank could feel it himself, a heavy dark weight pressing down upon his soul, crushing his lungs until it was a battle to take a breath. His nostrils were filled with an indescribable stench; he shivered despite the humid heat of the summer night. 

It turned and growled at Derek, then spun around to face Nick approaching from the side. A melodic chant began behind it, and the creature turned again towards Alex who approached from East. Last to arrive was Julia, her blue candle blazing before her. Lilting and steady, her voice joined Alex's, harmonizing and sweet. Nick was third to sing, and Derek fourth. The monster spun around, howled at the moon, then roared. The ground beneath them shook. The concrete cracked. A wisp of a form began to grow out of the ground, building, swirling, hovering. 

Frank stopped in his tracks, staring with wide-eyed horror, while the Legacy team inched forward, their voices still rising on the wind. 

The mist solidified, then broke apart, then coalesced again. Fearful, frightful faces formed and then dissolved. It swirled down upon the creature in the middle and consumed him, ate him alive like acid on flesh. His voice screamed once, then choked into silence, leaving only the living fog and the steady chant of human voices. 

The force hovered, then struck outwards at Derek. He barely faltered. Raising his candle, he shouted out. Frank couldn't make out the words, but the rest of his team responded. They closed inwards, tightening the square. Derek shouted again, his words flying above the continuing chant of the others. English mixed harshly with the foreign tongue. He demanded surrender; insisted that Tezcatlipoca returned to his resting place; warned that his place in this world was gone. 

The mist closed in on itself, took shape, and the fanged mouth of a beast struck outward at Derek. The Precept never wavered - he lifted his candle and shouted a single command. The slathering mouth fell down upon him, but at the same instant all four threw their flames at once. 

They hit the center of the beast at once. Wind whipped through the air, fire blazed upward, illuminating the night, the ground beneath their feet shuddered...and the fangs aiming for Derek dissolved upon contact with his skin. The mist tore past him, swirled, then was sucked back into the center of the blaze. Like a bonfire it raged, high, reaching towards the stars, then abruptly, it was sucked downward into the broken ground. The concrete melted around the crack, molded and ran, then smoothed together as though never broken. 

The rush of the wind stilled. The ground settled. Silence fell. 

OOOOOO 

"How the hell I'm gonna explain this in my report is beyond me," Frank grumbled. 

Derek grinned at him over the top of a crystal wine glass. 

"Then don't. Make something up. The killings are ended, which is what really matters." 

"Yeh," Frank said doubtfully. He took a sip of the admittedly fine wine, then frowned. 

"Are you sure it won't come back?" 

Derek shrugged his shoulders. 

"Most likely not, unless someone else calls it up." 

Frank shivered. 

"Do things like this really happen that often?" 

"Mmm," Derek finished his wine, then sat the glass on the table beside him. "Often enough to keep us busy." 

"Better you than me," Frank replied. 

Derek grinned toothily. 

"You could join us. The Legacy is always looking for experienced recruits." 

"Unh uh. Not on your life!" Frank exclaimed. He glanced at the dregs of his wine, then set the glass down as though it had stung him. "Once was far, far more than enough." 

"You sure?" Derek questioned, amusement deepening the accent Frank now new was Dutch. 

"Very sure!" Frank retorted. Gathering up his coat, he stood, then paused. "Look, I'll take a good, old-fashioned domestic murder any day. You can have all of the supernatural monsters with my blessing." 

"Good enough," Derek replied, the smile still curling the edges of his lips. He stood up and offered his hand. Frank shook it firmly. 

"Call us if you come across another..." Derek prompted. 

"Aztec whatsis? Oh, I will, Derek, believe me!" Frank promised fervently. 

They paused, hands still clasped, and sealed the bargain in silent communion. Then, with mixed regret and reluctance, Frank withdrew his hand and turned to leave. He waved over his shoulder, and Derek smiled, again, at his back. 

"See you..." the Precept said, as his gaze abruptly focused on the air itself. 

His voice fell into a faint whisper. 

_"Very soon."_


End file.
